Читать книгу Murder in Four Degrees: Being Entry Number Two in the Case-book of Ronald Camberwell - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 5

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We went back to our taxi-cab, awaiting us in the Inner Circle, and bade its driver go down to the Morning Sentinel office. As we moved off Chaney leant back in his corner with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Miss Hetherley, eh?’ he remarked. ‘That’s all right. Good smart business woman—we shall get on with her.’

‘Who is Miss Hetherley?’ I enquired.

‘Hannington’s private secretary,’ he answered. ‘His right hand! I’ve met her more than once.’

‘You seem to know a good deal about these people, Chaney,’ I said. ‘How does that come?’

‘Well, the fact is,’ he replied, ‘my brother-in-law is a departmental manager at Chever’s Tea place, so I hear a good deal. Yes, I know a fair lot about Lord Cheverdale and his affairs—hear things, you know. Now, you saw Miss Chever—the Honourable Miss Chever, to give her her correct designation, just now. From what bit you saw of her, what should you say of her?’

‘I should say she wasn’t possessed of the brains her father is credited with,’ I answered. ‘Bit—eh?’

‘Bit wanting there—not much, but a bit,’ he said. ‘Just so. Well, the Honourable Miss Chever is about to be married—the announcement was in The Times and the Morning Post—fashionable intelligence, you know—not so long since. The man she’s going to marry is her father’s right-hand business man, Mr. Francis Craye. Craye, really, is Chever—at least, Chever’s Tea. The old gentleman leaves everything relating to the business in Craye’s hands, so my brother-in-law tells me. Been there some years, Craye—went as a departmental manager and very soon came to be absolute boss. Now he’s going to marry Lord Cheverdale’s only child—and she’ll have all the old man’s money! Lucky chap—but my brother-in-law says there’s a reason for it. I should say there is—emphatically!’

‘What reason?’ I asked.

‘Why—obvious! It isn’t everybody would marry a woman who’s a bit mentally weak, even if it is a mere bit, and especially when she’s no great shakes to look at, and is nearly, if not quite, forty. But Craye will!—and Lord Cheverdale trusts Craye to look after her and the big fortune. See?’

‘I see—marriage of arrangement?’

‘Just that! Craye, they say, is a financial genius—he’ll look after the Cheverdale millions. The lady is—the price! They say the only thing she cares about is dog-fancying. Well—it’s harmless.’

That subject dropped—we turned back to the murder.

‘Any ideas, Chaney?’ I asked.

‘None, so far,’ he said. ‘I conclude that Hannington was on his way to call on Lord Cheverdale, late though it was, and that he was either followed or laid in wait for. Important to find out which. If he was laid in wait for, somebody knew he was coming. If he was followed—but it’s idle to speculate at present. What we want to know first of all is—what were Hannington’s movements last night? We start out, of course, from the Morning Sentinel office. And here we are—or nearly. Stop the man at the corner—we can walk down.’

We were then in Fleet Street, and when we had left the cab, Chaney turned down one of the side streets, and made for the new buildings which have gone up of recent years between the eastern edge of Temple Gardens and Blackfrairs. In a few moments we were confronting a commissionaire at the door of the Morning Sentinel office. We sent in our professional cards, accompanied by one of Lord Cheverdale’s. Presently a boy came and conducted us by a lift to the first floor, where he showed us into a luxuriously furnished room, the chief feature of which was a three-quarter length of a somewhat solemn-faced gentleman who appeared to be regarding the world with stern disapproval. Chaney jerked a thumb at it.

‘Lord Cheverdale!’ he said. ‘That was in the Academy two or three years ago. Cheerful looking chap, isn’t he? And that’s Hannington.’

He pointed to a photogravure on the opposite side of the room, and I crossed over and looked at it with interest. It required no more than a glance to see that Hannington had been just what Chaney had said—crank, faddist, enthusiast. The eyes were those of a visionary: the whole expression that of a man who could be a fanatic.

A door opened; a lady entered. I looked at her with more interest than I had felt for the pictures; she was obviously very much alive—a good-looking, smartly-dressed woman of thirty-five or thereabouts, alert, businesslike. She held our cards and Lord Cheverdale’s, in one hand; with the other she pointed us to chairs on either side of a big desk that stood in the centre of the room.

‘Good morning, Mr. Chaney,’ she said in a brisk voice. ‘We’ve met before. This, I suppose, is your partner?—how do you do, Mr. Camberwell? So you’ve already been up to Cheverdale Lodge? Mr. Paley ’phoned me that Lord Cheverdale was employing you as well as the regular police. I’ve only just got rid of two Scotland Yard men—they’ve been questioning me for the last three-quarters of an hour. Now I suppose I shall have to go over the whole thing again, with you? What is it you want to know, now?’

She sat down at the desk, Chaney on one side of her, I on the other, and glanced from one to the other of us. Following my usual course, I let Chaney do the talking.

‘We want to know a lot Miss Hetherley,’ said Chaney. ‘All we know, so far, is that Mr. Hannington was—presumably—attacked and murdered, beaten to death by blows on the head, we understand, about midnight, last night, in Lord Cheverdale’s grounds, and that as far as is known there’s no clue to the murderer or murderers. Now I want to go back and to learn what went before this. And I’d like you to tell me something to start with. What were Mr. Hannington’s regular hours of attendance at this office?’

Miss Hetherley replied promptly.

‘Two o’clock in the afternoon until two o’clock in the morning.’

‘Stayed here all the time?’

‘As a rule. Sometimes—but very rarely—he went out to dine. But as a rule, a strict rule, dinner was sent in to him at half-past seven.’

‘What were your hours—as his secretary?’

‘Two o’clock in the afternoon until nine in the evening.’

‘What about last night?’

‘Last night there was a departure from the rule—his rule, anyway. He left at nine o’clock—when I did.’

‘Any reason?’

‘None that I know of. No reason I can give, you know—unless it was because of something that occurred yesterday afternoon.’

‘What was that?’ asked Chaney.

‘Well, it was something that may turn out to be of the vastest importance,’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘I’ve already told it to the Scotland Yard men: now, I suppose, I must tell it to you. I’d better explain things in full detail. This room we’re sitting in is Lord Cheverdale’s private room—when he comes here. That door admits to the editor’s room—Mr. Hannington’s. Beyond that is a smaller room which is my office. Nobody could get at Mr. Hannington—I mean in the way of callers—except through me. You understand that?’

‘We understand that,’ said Chaney.

‘Very well! Now follow this. At about five o’clock yesterday afternoon, a boy brought up to me a note addressed to Thomas Hannington, Esq., and marked Private in the top left-hand corner. The handwriting was a woman’s. I took the note in to Mr. Hannington, and waited while he read it. As soon as he opened it, I saw him glance at the signature; I saw, too, that whatever it was, the signature occasioned him surprise. He read the note hastily: I saw him frown over it. He suddenly thrust it and the envelope into his pocket and turned to me. “Bring this lady in, Miss Hetherley,” he said. “See that we’re not disturbed.” I went back to my room where the boy was waiting and sent him down to fetch the lady. In a few minutes he came back with her.’

‘You can describe her?’ suggested Chaney.

‘Everything but her face,’ replied Miss Hetherley, coolly. ‘I can’t tell you or anybody else anything whatever about that! She was closely veiled—so closely that I couldn’t tell you if she was a blonde or a brunette or if she had green eyes or yellow ones. But from her walk and figure—a very good one—I should say she was a woman of perhaps thirty or thirty-two years of age. One thing I am absolutely certain of. She hadn’t got her clothes in England!’

‘Where then?’ asked Chaney.

‘Paris! I know Paris frocks—and Paris everything—at sight! She was dressed as only a Frenchwoman can dress—or as women can only be dressed by a French modiste. I set her down at once—as a Frenchwoman.’

‘You heard her speak?’ suggested Chaney.

‘I never heard her speak! Not a syllable—from her coming in to her going out. As soon as the boy showed her into my room, I showed her into Mr. Hannington’s. And now I think you should take note of two very unusual things. First, it was most unusual for Mr. Hannington to see anybody—anybody!—at that hour of the afternoon: second, it was still more unusual that he should allow anyone to take up his time for more than a very few minutes. But this woman, whoever she was, remained with him until six o’clock—nearly an hour!’

‘Did you enter the room during that time?’ enquired Chaney.

‘Not once! If Mr. Hannington said “Don’t let anything interrupt me,” or “don’t let us be disturbed” he meant what he said. No, I never went near them. And I kept Mr. Hannington from being disturbed—while she was there.’

‘Well—I suppose she left, eventually?’ said Chaney.

‘At six o’clock Mr. Hannington opened the door of his room and they came out. He took her straight across mine and opened the door on to the corridor. I didn’t hear a word exchanged between them. He gave her a nod—a sort of smiling nod, as if they understood each other very well, and she gave him a bow—that, again, made me think she was a Frenchwoman—it wasn’t an Englishwoman’s bow. But they didn’t exchange a word—in my hearing. However—do you consider me at all observant, Mr. Chaney?’

‘I think you’ll pass, Miss Hetherley,’ responded Chaney, with a grin. ‘You show great promise!’

‘Well, I noticed something, anyway, that may be of interest—and, perhaps, of importance,’ continued Miss Hetherley, smiling. ‘This! When the veiled lady entered my room, and subsequently, Mr. Hannington’s, she carried, in her right hand—beautifully gloved, by the way—a packet of papers, tied up with a bit of green ribbon. When Mr. Hannington showed her out, he had this packet, still tied up with the green ribbon, in his hand, and when she’d gone, and as he crossed my room to go back to his own, I saw him thrust it into the inner breast pocket of his coat. Is that of moment?’

‘I should say it was!’ exclaimed Chaney. ‘Good! All you’re telling us is most valuable, Miss Hetherley. Tell us more!’

‘But there’s little more to tell,’ responded Miss Hetherley. ‘As soon as the woman had left things went on as usual.’

‘Did Mr. Hannington make any remark about his caller?’ asked Chaney.

‘No!—not a word. There were matters requiring his attention, and he turned to them at once.’

‘What about the rest of the evening?’ enquired Chaney. ‘You say that the woman left at six and Mr. Hannington left at nine? Did he have his dinner here?’

‘He did—but he had it rather earlier than usual.’

‘And you say he left at nine o’clock?’

‘Yes. I know he did, for the simple reason that he went down in the lift with me. I had just entered the lift when he came hurrying along the corridor and got in, too. We went down together, walked across the entrance hall, and went out into the street together. I turned up towards Fleet Street, to get my ‘bus home, but Mr. Hannington turned down towards the Embankment. And now,’ continued Miss Hetherley, for the first time showing some slight hesitation or uncertainty in her speech and manner, ‘now comes in something about which I’m a little doubtful—I mean, I’m doubtful about telling it, because it may have been pure fancy on my part, or it may have been the merest coincidence.’

‘Never mind—let’s know what it is,’ said Chaney. ‘Don’t omit anything!—You don’t know how the smallest things help.’

‘Well, it’s this,’ responded Miss Hetherley. ‘When Mr. Hannington and I walked out of the front door downstairs there was a man—a foreigner, by his appearance—hanging about on the opposite side of the street; I thought he was watching the door. When I had turned up the street a few yards, I looked round, and the man I speak of was following Mr. Hannington! Anyway, whether he was following him or not, he was walking down the street, in the direction of the Embankment, immediately in Mr. Hannington’s wake.’

‘Well, that’s a bit of highly important information,’ remarked Chaney. ‘Could you recognize the man?’

‘Ah, I doubt it!’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘I only saw him in the light of the street-lamps, you know. The general impression I got was that he was a foreigner—he wore a cloak, instead of an overcoat, and a large hat. He stood right opposite the office door.’

‘Did you draw Mr. Hannington’s attention to him?’

‘No—Mr. Hannington wouldn’t even have glanced at him, if I had.’

‘You knew Hannington well, Miss Hetherley?’

‘I’d been his private secretary, or right-hand, Mr. Chaney, ever since this paper was founded, six or seven years ago.’

‘What was your opinion of him?’

‘He was a fine man, a fine character, but eccentric: if anybody came to him with a really genuine grievance he’d take the matter up as if his very life depended on it. But then, you know what a reputation the Morning Sentinel has——’

‘Do you know if Hannington had enemies, Miss Hetherley?’

Miss Hetherley shook her head.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I don’t believe he’d an enemy in the world, as a man! But as a force, a political and social force, I’ve no doubt he’d lots—bitter ones!’

It was at this point that I took a share in the process of question and answer.

‘What particular windmill was it that Mr. Hannington was last tilting at?’ I enquired.

Miss Hetherley turned on me with a smile.

‘It’s quite evident that you don’t read the Morning Sentinel, Mr. Camberwell!’ she said. ‘You don’t?—well, if you did, you’d know that of late Mr. Hannington has been denouncing the doings of the Bolsheviks in Russia. Although he and Lord Cheverdale, as editor and proprietor, were Radicals of the deepest dye (of the old Manchester school, you know) and of democratic sympathies all round, they’d no belief in the present movement in Russia, and Mr. Hannington wrote some very fierce things about it.’

‘Did the man you noticed outside, last night, look like a Russian?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know what he looked like—except that he gave me the impression that he was a foreigner.’

I went off on another track.

‘What about that note that the woman of French appearance sent in to Mr. Hannington?’ I said. ‘Did he happen to leave it lying about?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘The Scotland Yard men asked me that, too. He put it in his pocket when he read it and I suppose he kept it in his pocket, with the papers tied up with green ribbon. You have been up to Cheverdale Lodge, haven’t you? Well, is it true that he hadn’t a paper or document on him when the police were fetched to his dead body?’

‘So we were informed.’

‘Well, to anyone who knew him well, that’s most remarkable—and suggestive. Mr. Hannington was a truly awful man for carrying papers about with him. His pockets were usually stuffed with papers: breast pockets, tail pockets, side-pockets; he carried papers in every pocket. The odd thing was that amongst all that litter, he could produce any paper, document, scrap of newspaper cutting, anything, at a second’s notice. And—is it true that his valuables were left untouched?’

‘We were told that, too.’

‘Doesn’t that look as though the murderers were after him for something in the way of papers or documents?’ suggested Miss Hetherley. ‘Evidently, they were not common thieves!’

‘There’s no question about that,’ said Chaney. ‘We may take it that Mr. Hannington was murdered by somebody for one of two reasons. One—before he could reveal some secret to Lord Cheverdale. Two—to secure possession of some secret contained in a document which he had on him. The two reasons, really, merge into one. And it seems pretty evident that the visit of the mysterious lady has something to do with it. Perhaps—everything! Pity you didn’t hear her speak, Miss Hetherley. Wasn’t there even one word?’

‘Not one word!’ declared Miss Hetherley. ‘The Scotland Yard men wanted to know that, too, and they went downstairs and made careful enquiries. All she did, on arriving in the entrance hall, was to hand the note to the commissionaire. He gave it to the boy who brought it up. Nobody ever heard her speak—except Mr. Hannington.’

‘But your convinced impression is that she was a Frenchwoman?’ I said.

‘My convinced belief is that she had bought her clothes, her shoes, her stockings, her gloves, in Paris!’ asserted Miss Hetherley. ‘And I think she was a Frenchwoman, from the way she wore them. Although I’m an Englishwoman myself, I’m not such a fool as not to know that a Frenchwoman knows how to put her things on and an Englishwoman does not! My opinion is that this was a Frenchwoman.’

There was a longer silence: we were, I suppose, wondering about things. Then Chaney began again.

‘Those Scotland Yard chaps?’ he said. ‘What’s their idea?’

‘Oh, well!’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘They think it’s a political murder—they think....’

At this point a clerk entered and whispered to Miss Hetherley. She turned to us.

‘They’re back here,’ she said. ‘Inspector Doxford and Detective-Sergeant Windover. We’d better have them up. Then you can ask them a direct question.’